We join a sprawling queue at the top of the steps into the Tube. Above us, the Circus signs glow. The largest one, which not so long ago belonged to the red and white of Coca-Cola, now sports the blue and yellow of Leata. It flashes with its daily message as if it’s mocking us. ‘We all win the race when we’re happy!’
We keep moving with the crowds further down the stairs when Tom suddenly stops, checking his phone from his pocket. He meets my eyes, gripping my hand tighter. ‘My Samaritan caller. They want to meet me. Now.’
Him
‘It’s saying head down Piccadilly towards the Ritz.’
I hold the phone out in front of me like it’s a diviner leading us to water. By the time the Ritz comes into view another text bleeps through.
Cross the road and keep walking down. Pass a chocolate shop on the corner. Turn right. A building at the end. Go through the black door.
We do as it says, though Hope’s more hesitant. ‘What if it’s a trap? Look what just happened with Ralph.’
I take a breath. ‘This person has only ever helped me the whole time. I need to find out who it is.’ I mean, it can’t be Dad – that’s stupid. Isn’t it?
We find the building, stuck at the end of a cul-de-sac directly off Piccadilly, a road I’ve never noticed before. Entering through a grand door, an elderly security man is sat in a room just off the black and white chequered hall. His aged voice croaks, ‘Can I help?’ as another text comes through. I repeat its message. ‘We’re here to see Dr Talbot. Number thirty-three.’
‘Go on up then.’
We walk further in; it’s like a building turned inside out – old-fashioned galleries above host black doors to flats, with Victorian lamp posts spaced between them. We start climbing the main stairs. My mouth is clamped dry as we knock on flat thirty-three.
The door opens without revealing who’s behind it. I go first, with a stop hand out telling Hope to wait.
Her
‘You!’ I hear Tom say.
His tone gets me ready to run. I twist my arm to feel for the shape of John Tenby’s book in my rucksack. All the truth about Leata concealed within it. We can’t risk losing it now.
‘I’m on your side,’ I hear a man’s voice saying smoothly.
A little more curious than fearful now, I slide past the door, next to Tom.
The handsome detective from the other day – who Tom revealed works for MI5 – he’s standing in the shadows of a narrow unlit hall.
‘Hi, Hope? I’m Agent Ethan Miles,’ he says, facing me squarely. ‘Your dad’s going pretty mental about you.’
‘My dad is pretty mental,’ I reply dryly. The agent laughs.
‘How do you have Dad’s phone?’ Tom suddenly launches himself forward, clutching a fistful of Agent Miles’ suit. I don’t know whether to haul him off or help pin Miles down.
In turn, Miles stays passive, swatting his hands in a placating motion. ‘The phone was in the evidence bag. Commander Menton sent that first text. He wanted to spook you into backing off. When you did the opposite, I used it to try and help you.’
Tom keeps hold, but loosens his grip. ‘Why help me? When you work for PharmaCare?’
‘Hey, no. I work for Her Majesty’s Service. I’m James Bond, not Darth Vader.’
Tom sniffs, takes his hand away, leaving a crumpled shape on Agent Miles’ shirt.
‘I had to act that way; toe the party line. But I’m a normal guy.’ Miles pats himself down. ‘I’m not that complicated. I didn’t like what they were doing to you is all.’
Tom places a hand on my arm as if we’re leaving.
‘What is this place?’ I ask, staring round into the gloom.
‘Don’t worry – it’s safe. It’s one of the flats we use to house defectors. Strange place though, isn’t it? No space to swing a cat and all that.’
‘We’re not here to buy it.’ Tom edges closer to the door, his hand poised to push me out first.
‘I get it. You want to know you can trust me.’ Miles makes a smile, his eyes shining. ‘Listen – I’m on what you might call a secondment to PharmaCare,’ he explains, his strong aftershave sending wafts into the small corridor every time he moves. ‘I take the stuff, Leata, it keeps me happy – so I reckoned it’d be a good gig when they promoted me last year. It’s quickly turned sour. John Tenby wasn’t a threat to national security as far as I can tell. And to put some kid against the wall, just for wanting to know what happened to his dad – you’re the same age as my baby brother.’ He joins his hands and points his forefingers at Tom. The gesture reminds me of some cheesy newly qualified teacher. For some reason that also makes me start to trust him.
‘Shall we?’ Miles indicates the door closest to us off the corridor.
Tom’s edgy still. I gesture with my eyes for ‘give him a chance,’ and follow, tugging Tom after me into a small box of a lounge, filled with furniture that looks like it came from communist Russia. A cream net curtain covers the window.
‘I want to make money, get on in my career, yeah? But this is too much to stomach,’ Miles continues, running a hand over his short hair. ‘You know, I’m not the type of person to question things.’ The smile grows a little. ‘Like Leata says, “Not all questions bring the answers we need.” Right?’ He pulls a serious face. ‘But right now: all I do is question. They’ve put a kill order over your head, Tom. This isn’t what I signed up for. And no one else in MI5 knows what we’re up to. Commander Menton – he has a licence to kill without any kind of approval. He can do what the hell he wants.’
‘Because he’s part of a group who run the country, manipulate the world,’ I say, noting Tom’s cautionary gesture with his hand. ‘We can’t say,’ I add when Miles asks what I mean.
‘So did Menton …’ Tom asks, swallowing forcefully, ‘approve Dad’s murder?’ He shoves his glasses back on, fiddling with them.
Agent Miles looks uncomfortable. ‘You really want that information, mate?’ He draws a deep breath.
Him
‘All right, okay.’ Miles licks his lips. ‘The person who shot your dad …’ He pauses, staring between me and Hope. ‘It was the woman who worked for John Tenby. Imogen Poole.’
A sharp gasp leaves Hope’s mouth. I feel her hand tighten round my arm. I’m struggling to catch my breath. ‘Imogen?’ I whisper back hoarsely, thinking I only spoke to her yesterday.
‘Yeah.’ Miles slants his eyes at me apologetically. ‘Crime of passion, mate, it would seem. Or a set-up, if you want to look at it that way.’
‘She killed Dad?’ I say.
Hope goes and sits down on one of the small brown sofas. ‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Your dad was going to get arrested for John Tenby’s murder, Tom.’ Miles swings round to look back at Hope. ‘PharmaCare’s Jack Wright had arranged for a gun to be bought on Matt’s behalf. Arranged for his lapdog, Slicer, to use it – on Matt’s behalf. They employed Slicer to shoot John Tenby, to keep MI5 “officially” out of it. Next, Menton uses Imogen Poole as the honeytrap to get Matt Riley to meet her in Richmond Park. For her to hand Matt the murder weapon. The plan was to pick him up soon after, as if he were on the run.’
‘But Imogen used the gun on him?’ My words come out tight and fierce.
‘Commander Menton knew there was a chance she might do it.’ Miles lifts and drops his shoulders. ‘I was there – Menton pumped her up, telling her Matt killed John Tenby. And that she might be next if Matt saw her as a threat.’
‘No wonder she was a wreck,’ I hear Hope say. ‘Poor Imogen.’
I round on her. ‘Imogen Poole shot my dad, Hope!’
Hope looks startled. ‘I know. I’m sorry, I –’ She shakes her head, mouth gaping.
Miles breaks in between us. ‘Tom, your dad’s days were numbered regardless. He was already a dead man walking. He was going to be shut away for life for murder, if he wasn’t taken out before that.’
I stay silent. So does Hope. The only sound is our heavy breathing.
‘Imogen’s since run. My unit has been ordered to kill her. So far, I’ve diverted the tracking team from her.’
‘Then stop diverting,’ I hear myself say.
‘No!’ Hope shoots back.
I turn on her again. ‘She killed Dad!’
‘You heard Agent Miles. Imogen was set up! Benny is just three! He needs his mum. We can’t let them find her! You have to understand it from her perspective.’ Hope cuts a hand fiercely through the air. ‘She’d been used by your dad, she thought he’d killed John, the man who was like a father to her! That your dad might threaten her and Benny next?’ She stands up, moving closer to me. I stare into her eyes. They used to be my favourite eyes in the whole world. How can they not see what I see? Imogen deserves to be punished!
‘How would you act – if you came face to face with the person who killed your dad, Tom? The day after he had died? And you held the murder weapon in your hand?’
I pull back, my body held rigidly from hers. I suddenly find I can’t even look at her. ‘It’s about the truth, isn’t it?’ I hear myself mutter. ‘It’s always been about the truth.’
It’s my turn to sit down. I say nothing as I hear Hope impeach Miles, ‘Don’t let them kill Imogen.’
I stay quiet as they move on and Miles starts asking, ‘So what help do you need from me?’
I hear Hope explaining that we need to gain access to Professor Blythe’s house. I catch Miles saying Blythe is the man Menton reports to. But I don’t hear any more. There’s a noise in my brain. It’s telling me to leave this mission and go and find Imogen, slam her face into a wall, trample on her heart like she’s ravaged mine.
Her
Agent Miles leaves to get us a car and other stuff to help us with what we need to do next. Tom is still sat on the sofa, his hands clasped in front, starting fixedly at the brown and orange patterned carpet.
I don’t bother to say anything else. I know I should console him. But he wants me to join him in his anger for Imogen. When I can’t. I feel sorry for her. And am fiercely protective of Benny. I see them running from danger, his little curly head bobbing alongside his mum. I can’t condemn them. I don’t understand how Tom can. But I get that he wants to.
I stand by the window, constantly lifting the net curtain. This Agent Miles seems okay, but we shouldn’t trust anyone. We’ve got to be ready to run any moment.
I’m starting to get nervous – it’s been two hours – before Miles bounds back through the door, brandishing burger boxes and bags of fries. ‘Who’s hungry?’
‘Starving,’ I answer. I pass some food to Tom, telling him he has to eat. I’m glad when he does.
Agent Miles drops a long bag from his shoulder to the floor, swinging a set of keys round his finger that he chucks at me. ‘I got you a car. And I have a man I trust checking out Blythe’s house. It’ll be a Fort Knox. But I’ve brought you an MI5 lock-pick and I’ll try and get you a passcode for his alarm.’ He unzips the bag. Tom looks over as I peer in – it’s like life-sized loot from a game of Cluedo. Rope, a piece of lead piping … a revolver.
‘You’re joking aren’t you? We don’t know how to use one of those.’ I point at the black metal gun as Miles lifts it out.
‘Before you go, I’ll give you a crash course. I don’t usually go round giving guns to teenagers. But whether you want it or not, you’re probably going to need it if you want to stay alive.’
He pulls a small box out gently. ‘If Blythe has anything it’ll be in a safe. In here are silent explosives. I’ll explain how to use them too. Just be careful with them unless you want to end up as bomb victims before you even get started.’
I suck in my breath. I try and catch Tom’s eyes, to share my anxiety, but he’s back looking intently at the carpet.
‘Also I’ve got a couple of wigs, some hats, sunglasses. Best to keep disguised. Just make sure you don’t end up looking like extras from the Muppets.’
Him
I don’t say much, but I let Miles show me how the gun works. I think of Imogen and Commander Menton and suddenly I want to know – how to kill. I find myself bristling as I watch him teach Hope – standing behind her, Miles’ hands clasping hers, his cheek next to her cheek, to show her how to aim. He didn’t do that with me.
Lesson over, we get our bags and Miles goes out ahead, to give us the all clear, before he leads us downstairs and out through a twilight-lit garden at the back. I ask him about Mikey as he points us over to the car. ‘They’re still interrogating Mikey,’ Miles says, grimacing. ‘But I’ll keep an eye on him. And you do me a favour,’ he continues. ‘You get caught, you don’t mention my name, yeah?’ The smile creeps up again. ‘I’m skilled at covering my arse so don’t you go uncovering it for me, however an attractive arse it might be.’
He leans in through the car window once we’re inside. ‘I’ll do my best to keep the team off your scent. But do what you’re going to do and do it quick.’ Miles sniffs, straightening up. ‘My old dad always says there are only two kind of men: the ones who want power and the ones who are powerful – and it’s always the former who end up at the top.’ He smiles. ‘I hope what you’re going to do changes that.’
I tick my head at him. ‘We’ll try,’ I say, gazing over the dashboard to work out where all the controls are.
He bends down again as I start up the engine. ‘Hey. Just tell me will you, what it is, yeah? This big secret about Leata?’
‘Just stop taking it,’ I say, winding the window back up. ‘Something tells me you’re happy as you are, Ethan.’
18
Learn the ways to live happily
Leata
Her
I don’t know where Agent Miles found this car, but it looks like it’s had a lifetime on the rally circuit, all dents and scrapes and a layer of dust over its black bodywork. The inside’s not much better either. My seat feels sticky; toffee wrappers and drink cans litter the floor and back seat. The heating doesn’t work. I pull my coat tighter round me. And Tom’s not great with the controls; it keeps grating every time he changes gear. I wish I knew how to take over. Suddenly I don’t like being in the passenger seat. But having never driven anything but a dodgem car I’ve no choice.
It’s getting late by the time we join the motorway. Tom keeps rubbing at his eyes and he’s driving more erratically, even for a car he doesn’t know.
‘I think we should stop at the next service station. Bed down there. We’d only have to do the same in Bristol until we meet Hari tomorrow.’
Tom’s eyes stay fixed ahead.
‘Talk to me,’ I say, a little crossly. I’m getting a bit sick of the silent treatment. That kiss is fast becoming something I must have dreamt up.
‘I’m too tired to talk,’ he says, copping out. But after we pass Swindon, he starts indicating for the next service station.
We discreetly put on disguises: a blonde wig for me, a beret over it, to conceal the otherwise obvious-wig look. Tom’s wearing his dad’s flatcap again. A pair of aviator sunglasses have already replaced his spectacles, despite the black sky. We book into a room under false names, using the cash Ralph gave Tom.
It’s basic – a desk. A TV. Tom turns it on straightaway, flicking to a news channel, anything but Star Media. I go to use the loo, and when I come out, Tom is muttering, ‘Holy shit,’ at the screen.
My body tingles with new fear. ‘According to a statement from MI5, Matt Riley shot John Tenby causing a fatal heart attack,’ a news reporter is saying, ‘Matt Riley later killed himself.’
‘Commander Menton,’ Tom says under his breath as a large man fills the screen. His title: Director of Internal Security, MI5.
I make a sharp intake of breath as he starts speaking. ‘John Tenby’s death was undisclosed due to a covert operation. We’ve been forced to go public because Matt Riley’s son, Tom Riley, has taken up his father’s mantle. He has brainwashed a vulnerable seventeen-year-old, Hope Wright.’
Both our photos suddenly flash up on screen. Mi
ne’s a school shot taken last year when I was still in uniform. I look like a kid. Whereas Tom’s some CCTV close-up – the grainy image makes him look like a threat all right.
‘This is what they meant in the office, fighting fear with fear; dressing the problem,’ I say to Tom.
‘Tom Riley poses a serious threat to national security,’ Commander Menton continues. ‘He is also wanted on class-A drug charges, as well as the suspected abduction of Hope Wright.’
‘They’re painting you as the monster, me the victim,’ I tell him.
Tom’s face crumples as he stays staring at the screen. ‘Bastards,’ he says simply.
Him
We act all polite around each other as we get ready for bed. I don’t see any point in discussing what we’ve just seen, I tell Hope when she tries to talk about it. I think of the kiss and I just want to hold her. I think of Imogen killing my dad, and the fact Hope sides with her, and I can’t even look at her. I just need silence. I lie rigidly in our shared bed, clinging to the very edge, so not one bit of me touches her. A mix of fury and frustration rocks my body, fuels my breathing. I just want a few hours to turn off the lights in my head and still my heart. To try not to think about how Dad needn’t have died. That if Imogen hadn’t shot him, he might be imprisoned for a murder verdict I could have proved unlawful. I could have saved him!
Natural light’s filling the room as I blink awake. Looking at my phone, we’ve overslept massively. Ten a.m. I stare over at Hope. Our legs have got entangled, like they used to when we lay or sat together as kids. Mum used to say we were like a couple of puppies, that it was hard to know where Hope began and I ended.
Asleep, her face falls into the shape and fullness of eleven-year-old Hope. I can almost forget the anger I feel towards her for backing Imogen. I nudge her gently. She wakes up suddenly as if she’s under attack. As she takes me in with those wide eyes, my anger steadily trickles back in. ‘Come on, we’re late,’ I say.
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